The Wheat and the Weeds
by David J. Warner
Summary: Act VI of "The Bucktown Timeline": The Reclamation Squad vs. Crystal Black


THE WHEAT AND THE WEEDS 

A Reclamation Squad Tale 

written by David J. Warner 

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This story (C) Copyright 1996 David J. Warner. All X-Men characters used within this story are the intellectual property of the Marvel Comics Company. The Reclamation Squad, Aqua, Image, and Crystal Black are original characters by David J. Warner. All rights reserved. 

This manuscript is freely distributable via print or electronic means. Sale for profit of this story without the expressed written consent of David J. Warner and the Marvel Comics Company is strictly prohibited. 

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The reign of God may be likened to one who sowed good seed in a field. While everyone was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds through the wheat and then made off. When the crop began to mature and yield grain, the weeds made their appearance as well. The owner's slaves came and said, "Did you not sow good seed in your field? Where are the weeds coming from?" The owner answered, "I see an enemy's hand in this." The slaves said, "Do you want us to go out and pull them up?" The owner answered, "No, pull up the weeds and you might take the wheat along with them. Let them grow together until harvest; then at harvest time I will order the harvesters, first to collect the weeds and bundle them up to burn, then gather the wheat into my barn. 

-- Matthew 13:24-30 

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CHAPTER THE FIRST - EBB AND FLOW 

Somebody has to take over the syndicate, she thinks to herself. It needs a leader, a strong presence determined to watch its rise back to the top. It needs a name that strikes fear into the hearts of ordinary people, while striking a chord of opportunity to the ambitious youngsters that want it all. They are fools to think they will even get close, but they are good for business, and there *will* be business -- even more than before. We have a secret weapon now. We have exactly what we need to make Mister Christopher happy. 

As the jet-black van pulls into the bank parking lot, she looks in the tinted window beside her and sees a vision -- a vision of a woman no longer a whore, but a pimpstress, a commander, a leader. Somebody has to take over the syndicate, she thinks to herself, and that somebody is me. 

She leads three others out of the van, the driver remaining with another covered in a black tericloth sheet on the floor. They all wear ski-masks, brown leather jackets, white T-shirts and blue jeans, except for her. She wears a snug black minidress with a jagged white line resembling cracked glass climbing up from her thigh to her shoulder, contrasting her smooth light-brown skin and long bronze curls. They walk through the entrance doors with a flourish, her beauty turning heads all across the bank. 

Once, she only turned heads. Today, she turns a profit. 

The shortest of the thugs in ski-masks points two fingers toward the edge where the back wall meets the ceiling. Bullets fly from those fingers and ricochet everywhere. 

"This is a robbery!", the woman shouts. "Give up the goods! Now!" 

Within seconds, everyone inside the bank is on the ground, and the thugs immediately threaten the tellers to fill their tote bags. The first continues to fire bullets from his fingers. Another lets a long trail of blue plasma balls stretch from his hand, and he waves them around like a whip that destroys everything in its path. The tallest one, sinking billows of smoke flowing from his hands, runs toward the bank vault and freezes the locked door to a temperature near absolute zero, allowing it to be shattered easily. 

"Sixty seconds!" 

As the thugs terrorize tellers and patrons alike into filling their bags with money and valuables, three officers emerge from the back corner with guns in their hands. "Police! Don't move!", they shout. She scoffs at them, then sweeps her hand in front of them. Hundreds of shards of broken glass fly from her hand, cutting across the policemen's clothes and skin. They fall to the ground screaming, blood flowing from too many open wounds. 

"Thirty seconds!" 

The tallest one in the vault lays his hands upon a wall of safety deposit boxes, almost instantly freezing all the doors, and he shatters them with his fists, giving himself access to bonds, jewelry, and precious metals stored away for safe keeping. As the robbers fill their bags, bullets, plasma balls and flying shards of glass let everyone know that there is nothing safe any more. 

"Five thousand!" 

The thugs snap to her command and head out the exits, while she stands before them all in victorious arrogance. 

"The name is Crystal Black!", she shouts, her hand forming a circular saw blade made of glass. "Remember it!" 

She tosses the blade toward a chandelier on the ceiling, cutting its cords and letting it drop. She turns on a dime and walks quickly but coolly out the door, not stopping to see the light fixture shatter and explode on the floor behind her. She quickly enters the van and closes the door as the driver squeals away. 

The tellers look up amidst the debris, the terror evident upon their faces. 

"Oh, my god," whispers one. 

"Someone call the police," says another. 

"Forget the police," says a third. "Someone call Ahmad Parker." 

--- 

Who is Ahmad Parker? 

To the people of Harlem, Ahmad Parker is a spokesperson, a presence, a hero. To leaders of the black community, and to the few police officers in the neighborhood that still care, he is a troublesome but dedicated ally. To criminals and junkies, he is an avenging angel, always on the prowl, waiting for them around every corner. To anti- mutant groups, he is a threat to their life-long prejudices. 

All of these groups, however, can agree on one thing -- Ahmad Parker is news. 

"What the...?" 

He sees the smoke drift out the top floor window of the tenement building and into the hazy afternoon sky. Immediately, he runs into the building and begins banging on doors. 

"Everyone out!", he shouts, firmly but without panic. "Fire in the building! This is not a drill! Repeat, this is not a drill!" 

Immediately, people recognize his voice and open their doors. "Aqua?", they say as they see him. "What's going on?", says one older man. 

"Folks, there is a fire on the top floor of this building," he says as he heads for the stairs. "I need everyone to stay cool and walk out of here as quickly as possible." 

As he runs up the first flight of stairs, the older man immediately takes charge on the ground floor. "You heard the man," he shouts. "Let's go." 

Ahmad repeats this process on several floors until he reaches the top floor. By that point, his alarm has attracted the attention of everyone in the building. As they all file quickly down the stairs, he sees the source of the gray clouds, stretches his black turtleneck collar over his nose and mouth, breaks down the door and runs into the apartment, where the flames engulf the curtains and begin to spread to the couch of a dingy living room. 

Instinctively, Ahmad raises his hands toward the flame, and large streams of water emerge from them, blanketing the fire until all that is left is a smouldering of ash and smoke where curtains once hung. He looks throughout the apartment for a cause, only to hear an old woman coughing down the hallway. He walks into the room, waving the smoke away, seeing Sarah Beckett, a popular neighborhood octogenarian, rising from the bed in a faded blue dress, choking lightly on the little smoke remaining in the air. 

"Oh, Ahmad," she says, looking up at him, "What just happened here?" 

"There's been a fire, Mrs. Beckett," he says, wrapping a blanket over her shoulder. "Let's get you out of here." 

"Oh, dear," she says, "where's little Vaughn? Is he okay?" 

Ahmad suddenly hears a high-pitched cough emerge from beneath the bed. He looks underneath, seeing a young boy with teary eyes, holding a small butane lighter in his left hand. 

"You been playing with that thing, Vaughn?", says Ahmad firmly. The boy nods. "Let this be a lesson to you then," he continues. "You and your grandma could have died because of what you did, not to mention anyone else who lives in this building. You realize how dangerous that little thing is now?" 

Ahmad points to the lighter. The boy nods. 

"You're real lucky I was in the neighborhood to stop this before it got any worse. Promise you won't play with that lighter again." 

The boy nods again. 

"Say, 'I promise,'" returns Ahmad. 

"I p-promise," the boy softly stutters. 

"A'ight, let's get you out of here." He reaches down and pulls the boy out from underneath the bed, carrying him in one arm while guiding Mrs. Beckett with the other. They walk down the staircase and out of the building, where fire trucks and television news vans await. 

"You guys can go and check," Ahmad says to the firemen, "but I'm pretty sure it's out." 

"Aqua!", says a surprised white fireman. "Hey, thanks for the assist, pal." 

"Don't sweat it," he replies. "I'm here to help out. Now where's the landlord?" 

"Oh, he's on vacation this week," says Mrs. Beckett. "He'll be back on Monday." 

"What's the problem, Aqua?", says the fireman. 

"The top hallway was half-filled with smoke," Ahmad says, "and I didn't hear one smoke detector anywhere in that building. People are lucky they got out of there as quickly as they did, and that all that's up there is some water damage to one or two apartments. You guys ought to call up the Marshal on that one." 

"Will do," says the fireman. "Let's go, boys." 

As the firemen walk up to investigate, the camera crews start to swarm in on the most public mutant this side of Dr. Henry McCoy. 

"Aqua! Aqua!", the newspeople shout. "How big was the fire? How quickly were you alerted?" 

"Hold up!", he shouts. "Let's do this right, now. I was just walking to the corner store when I saw some smoke comin' from that window up there. I ran up and did what I had to do. That's it. And this little man right here? He's learned a pretty valuable lesson today about playin' with fire. The big picture here, though, is this -- there were no smoke detectors up there. That's a building code violation, and whoever the landlord is here needs to get that fixed yesterday. I manage a buildin' myself, so I know..." 

They aim their microphones and cameras toward him, almost transfixed by his words. They know as much as anyone else; Ahmad Parker is a man in control. 

--- 

Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. Salem Center, New York. 

Some days, it is soap operas. Others, it is sitcoms. She has been in this room for weeks, sitting in her bed and watching television, thin blond strands straggling from her unwashed hair and falling in front of her face. There is little else for her to do. She eats little. She bathes only occasionally. She does not talk to the few people that still come to visit her. 

She believes there is nothing left for her, here or anywhere. Her home is broken. Her family is dissipated. The people she thought were her family are scattered. Her one true love is gone. She longs to escape the hell in which she now lives -- the hell of being a mutant; the hell of being wrongly accused of so-called crimes against humanity; the hell of being a fugitive from justice, a spectre that has chased her throughout her entire life. 

These people will not let her go, however. They still believe they can reach her. They are fools. So she sits in her bed and watches the television. Today, it is the news. The anchorman reads for the camera. Not for her. 

"Two policemen are dead and one is in intensive care tonight after a bank robbery in Brooklyn by a newly-emerging group of mutant terrorists. The leader of the group, who identified herself as Crystal Black, reportedly shot shards of broken glass from her hands, which killed the policemen and injured 17 others. The robbers made away with nearly $80,000 in cash and numerous items stored in safety-deposit boxes." 

Mutant terrorists. The words are like fingernails on a chalkboard to her ears. 

"At this point, there has been no comment from the mutant group known as the Reclamation Squad about the incident. Squad leader Ahmad Parker, however, had his hands full today in Harlem, single-handedly evacuating a four-story tenement building and putting out a small but growing fire on its top floor. Thanks in part to Parker's heroics, nobody was hurt in the blaze, except perhaps for the building's landlord." 

"There were no smoke detectors up there," Ahmad says to the swarm of reporters. "That's a building code violation, and whoever the landlord is here needs to get that fixed yesterday. I manage a buildin' myself, so I know." 

She looks closely at the man on the screen, and the caption below his name. Ahmad Parker. Aqua. He's the one. He's the water man that her young friend told her about in his letter. (-1-) 

"Aqua, will the Squad pay for the damage to the building?", says one reporter. 

"The Reclamation Squad will cover at least half of the damages, and if worse comes to worst, we'll cover all the damages that the owner of this building cannot cover himself," Ahmad replies. "We will not cover anything, however, until the owner sees to it that there are working smoke detectors and/or fire prevention devices in this building. We don't want to leave these people out in the street, but we're not going to let them live in substandard conditions like this, either." 

"Aqua, there are rumors connecting you with the X-Men. Any truth to that?" 

"I have had some contact with the X-Men, yes, but I assure you that the Reclamation Squad and the X-Men are two separate entities with two separate goals." 

"What are their goals, Aqua?" 

"You'd get a much better answer from them." 

Even on the small screen, he is a greater presence that she ever imagined -- strong, articulate, shrewd, quick on his feet, seemingly prepared for whatever the reporters throw at him. He is a mutant, yet he is accepted, admired, sometimes praised by those around him. 

Just for a moment, Sally Blevins sees one ray of hope still left in her life. She will follow. 

--- 

Hope is all but forgotten in this narrow Brooklyn alley, where the rain-filled skies darken what little daylight it could ever hope to receive. This is where Theresa Miller sits, hiding her shame from the world, withstanding the stench of wet garbage around her. It is an odor much more tolerable than the hell which has followed her much of her life. 

As the inconsistent drops from the fire escape fall upon her inch-long dreadlocks, she pulls the case out of her sweater pocket, taking out the needle and sticking it into a small bottle to fill it. She wraps the tourniquet around her arm and makes a fist, finding a vein that will protect her from herself for a just a few moments longer. The needle penetrates, and her fist relaxes, the cross of a rosary slipping from her hand. 

"Our father, who art in heaven," she whispers, "hallowed be thy name..." 

***** 

FOOTNOTES 

(-1-) Remember the letter Leech wrote to her in "Double-Team"? Didn't think so. 

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CHAPTER THE SECOND -- SEARCH AND SEIZURE 

"You idiot!" 

His name is Jeffrey, and he has lost track of how many times the back of Crystal Black's hand has drawn blood from his cheek. His taller partners, Gerald and Wallace, can only look on in frustration as their boss reprimands him. 

"How many times have I told you not to fall asleep while guarding her?", Crystal yells. "You know how important she is to our plans." 

"We've done this dance before, boss," says Gerald. "How many times are you gonna hit the kid?" 

"As many times as it takes before it sinks into his thick skull," Crystal replies. "That little junkie is the key to help us unlock this town. Every second that we have to chase after her is time lost, time that could be spent toward bringing us and the syndicate more paper. God only knows why I keep him around." 

"'Cause you need my bullets, Black," replies Jeffrey. 

"Bullshit," she says, slamming her fist against the desk and breaking it into pieces. She holds the broken arm up to Jeffrey's neck. "With the junkie, I don't need your bullets, and without her, you're practically useless." 

She immediately looks up and catches Wallace's hard-nosed stare at her. "Another look down from above, Wallace?", she says. "Take a closer look at the three of you as you are. All Jeffrey here can do is ooze metal strips out of his fingers, all Gerald can do is create a plasma ball with his hand, which he can't even throw, and all you are is a six-foot-nine air conditioner that won't fit in the window. You were the ones who wanted to be part of this. Did you think it would be easy?" 

Crystal walks slowly toward a box sitting in the corner of the room. She grabs from the box a glass jar, which shrinks in her left hand. As it shrinks, the jagged edges where her right hand was are smoothed, and her hand grows back anew. 

"I know we've had our problems, boss," says Gerald, "but the word on the street is that Aqua and Image are lockin' shit down all over the place. We can't get the same steady cash flow we used to." 

"Which is why we've had to resort to more drastic measures lately to keep Mister Christopher happy," replies Crystal, "but when you've got a problem, you need to get to the source." 

Jeffrey does a double-take. "You mean you goin' after--" 

"The Reclamation Squad," she says. "They've caused us enough trouble, so they're goin' down. First things first, though -- we gotta find the junkie." 

Wallace gives his boss a pessimistic stare. He thinks he's already found the junkie. 

--- 

Somewhere on the highway between New York City and Salem Center. 

"Mister media mogul, himself." 

"Oh, don't start." 

Jerome Parker has spent a lifetime getting under his younger brother's skin. He always figured that was the elder brother's job. He considers it a sign of affection these days, now that Ahmad has become a community leader with a great deal of influence. Ahmad's ego may be smaller than others, Jerome reasons, but it still needs to be kept in check. 

"Big man Aqua jumps in to save the day," Jerome says, "disses the mean ol' landlord, *and* plays the reporters like a song, but he *still* needs his big brother to drive him outta town. What kinda superhero is that, kid?" 

"One that obviously understands the importance of family," says Monica Chavis, who sits in the back seat of the loud and spacious Chevrolet, while her fiance Ahmad rides shotgun. 

"He needs to understand the importance of a dope ride," quips Jerome. "Not all of us can run around the hood all day bein' Captain Black America, holdin' the media in the palm of our hands, livin' off a big name RSNYC logo licensing deal--" 

"Hey, that money is for everybody," interrupts Ahmad. "I'm only keeping a little of it to live for myself." 

Jerome cocks his brow and looks back at his brother. "Aq," he says, "this is me, Jerome, your brother, the one who's known about your powers longer than the rest of the world. You ain't gotta justify yourself to me or anyone else. I think you're a fool not to keep a little more of that dough." 

"I know, I know," Ahmad replies. "I've just been a little on edge lately. Ever since I saw Perk's buddy Everett use my powers in ways I never thought were possible, I've felt like I should be even more than just the neighborhood water pistol." (-1-) 

"But you *are* more," says Jerome. "There ain't never been a mutant in history as publicly revered as you are, and only a handful of black men. You're out there makin' history." 

"No, no, no, no," replies Ahmad, waving his brother off. "One man is not capable of making history, J. One man can make a difference, but only the masses can make history." 

Jerome shoots an incredulous glance at his brother. 

"Come on, J," says Ahmad. "Put George Washington in the middle of Valley Forge by himself, surrounded by the British. What's he gonna do?" (-2-) 

Jerome snickers. "Exactly," replies Ahmad. "We've got the people behind us. They believe what we believe, and we're gonna straighten this out." 

"Well, you're definitely makin' a difference, Aq," Jerome says, "and you know I'm behind you all the way." 

"I hope so," replies Ahmad. "Someone's gotta drive my ass to Xavier's." 

Jerome sighs and shakes his head. "You have *got* to get yourself a ride, bro." Ahmad grins back at his brother. 

--- 

Theresa Miller did not expect to wake up in such a warm place. Her last memory was crying and praying herself to sleep in an alley somewhere in Brooklyn. Now, she finds herself lying on an unfamiliar couch, a soft, damp cloth dabbing her forehead. As her vision slowly clears, she looks up at the wall and sees a crucifix etched into a stained-glass window. She turns her head slowly to see a gentle-faced, white-haired man wearing a priest's collar and spectacles. 

"Father?", she whispers to him. 

"Rest easy, dear," the priest says to her. "You'll be safe here." 

For a moment, she wants to believe he is right. Instead, she closes her eyes and winces as the effect of the drugs in her body fades. "Where am I?", she says softly. 

"St. Anthony's Catholic Church," says the priest, getting up from the floor and taking a seat on a small footstool. "My name is Father Michael Allevato. You can call me Father Mike if you want." 

"How...how did I get here?" 

"A member of our parish saw you outside his apartment building. He called me, and I immediately drove over there to get you. We've taken in several drug users over the years, doing our best to help them get their lives in order." 

Theresa looks up at the priest, her face too tired to express shock. "You...you know?", she says. 

The priest reaches behind him, taking the drug paraphrenalia and the rosary from the end table and showing them to her. "We found these right beside you," he says. "In spite of all the things you might have heard about the Catholic church, we'd like to think we can help you." 

"Nobody can help me, Father," Theresa replies. "I've turned to church after church, and none of them have helped me." 

"You mean they have turned you away?", the priest asks. 

"No," she replies. "Most of them wanted to help, the same way you did, but there's nothing the church can do." 

"We all have fears, my friend," he replies. "Life can be very uncertain for all of us, but turning down this road can only lead to self-destruction. You seem like such a devout person. Surely there must be some way the church can help you." 

"You don't understand, Father," she says, closing her eyes and turning her head away. "I'm a mutant." 

The priest falls silent, trying his best to conceal his double- take from her. He puts his hand to his mouth and gently rubs his upper- lip, trying to take in her every word. 

"I've tried to find solace in the church," she says softly, "any church, just to forget about who and what I am. Yet I still hear voices in the congregation that whisper words like mutie and genejoke. They never directed it at me, because they didn't know. I never told them. I never had to. 

"Every time, though, it seemed that some poor child started to lose control of himself in the middle of a service, and others would run from him in fear. Some churches tried to help them, but others just cast the child and his or her family away in disgrace. At first, I didn't know what was happening until I noticed someone losing control of themselves around me almost regularly. That's when I realized that it wasn't them; it was me. I was doing these things to them. 

"I prayed and prayed that it would stop. I went to church after church in the hope that somehow, some way, things would change, but they never did. When the priests and ministers couldn't help me, I turned to God directly. I said the rosary daily, I prayed almost continuously, and it didn't do a thing. It was as if God wasn't even listening. 

"So I looked for another way to stop causing people such pain. That's when I started shooting drugs." 

"Dear Lord," the priest whispers, shaking his head. 

"It was the only way I knew to stop what I was doing," she says. "I had caused too many people too much pain, and no matter how much I prayed, it didn't stop. The drugs worked, though. I couldn't hurt anyone while I was high, so I stayed high as much as I could, so that I could take the pain away." 

"Surely there must be a better way," the priest says. "There are people who know about mutant powers, how they work and how they can be controlled. Certainly they can help you." 

"No, they can't," she replies. "I met a man who claimed to be a mutant researcher. He said he would help me, and he took me in and offered me hope. He lied, Father. He was a gangster, and he used my mutant power to enhance the powers of all his mutant criminals. They would tie me up and hide me in the back seat of the getaway car, or drag me along against my will, and they would do horrible, horrible things -- things they couldn't do if I wasn't there. 

"I tried to get away, but every time I escaped, they found me. I tried to resist them, but they said they would give me all the drugs I wanted if I came back to them. I would have rather they killed me, but they knew I was weak, and they needed me to give them more power. Every time they forced me to come with them, I would pray silently to myself that God would deliver me from their evil. The only answer I ever got was the sound of people dying around me -- people that would be alive today if it weren't for me. 

"You mustn't think like that, child," says the priest. "You haven't done anything wrong. Don't let other people's sins weigh so heavily upon your conscience." 

"Conscience, preacher man?" 

The unfamiliar voice catches the priest by surprise. He turns around to see three thugs in ski masks standing in the doorway, surrounded by a beautiful woman dressed in a one-piece, black spandex jumpsuit with a jagged white line stretching from her left foot to her left shoulder. 

"You let something as vile and depraved as your conscience serve as a guide in your life?", says the woman. 

One of the thugs forms a long line of plasma balls from his hand, snapping it like a whip upon the priest's shoulder. He grunts in pain as he falls off the stool and onto his back. 

"I learned a long time ago," the woman continues as he walks toward him, "that satisfying your conscience is nothing more than rationalizing your entire life -- who you are, what you do, and how you do it. So I stopped trying to satisfy my conscience, and I found so many other things worth satisfying." 

"You'll never be satisfied, Crystal," says Theresa. "No matter how much you get, you'll always want more." 

Crystal Black stares back at Theresa. "Maybe," she replies, "but better me than my conscience." 

She points her hand toward the priest, a long, razor sharp blade of glass growing from her palm. "Perhaps you'd like to live with this man's life on your conscience," she says. "After all, it's *your* power that letting me do this." 

"Don't listen to her, child," says the priest, watching the glass inch slowly toward his neck. "You're not to blame if she takes my life." 

Theresa looks back at the priest, then back at Crystal, and she buries her head in her hands. "No, Father," she says. "I won't let you die because of me." She stands up, her head still bowed. "Do what you will with me, but don't kill this man." 

Crystal holds the point of her glass blade gently against the chin of the priest, not budging from her stance for a moment. She looks at Theresa in disgust. 

"You pathetic little thing," she says. "Take her, Wallace." 

Nobody moves. Crystal looks back at the tallest thug in the group. "Wallace?", she says impatiently. 

He finally pulls Theresa away from the couch and toward the door. At the last possible moment, Crystal pulls the glass away from the priest and hurls it into the stained glass window. Both the blade and pieces of the window shatter before everyone. 

"I live with myself every day, preacher," says Crystal, "and I know who comes first -- not you, not her, nobody but me. I'm gonna get mine, and the moment I let my conscience get in the way, that's when I've lost. I won't lose, preacher man. Bank on it." 

She turns on a dime and marches out the door, her underlings following her. As the priest watches them leave, she catches a glimpse of Theresa's face looking back at him. She wants to say she is sorry. He wants to say she will be forgiven in the end. For a brief moment, they understand each other before she is forced out of the room and back onto the cold, mean streets. 

***** 

(-1-) See Chapter 6 of "360 Degrees: A Family Reunion" 

(-2-) A paraphrase of some knowledge gleaned from Kwame Toure. 

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CHAPTER THE THIRD -- THE SESSION 

The Chevrolet pulls into the circular driveway and stops in front of the steps of the sprawling mansion on Greymalkin Lane. It is called the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning on the outside. On the inside, it is the home of an oft-outlaw group of mutants called the X- Men. 

"These are some nice digs," says Jerome Parker, sitting behind the wheel of the Chevy. 

"You're welcome to come in and check it out if you like," says Ahmad Parker, Jerome's brother and founder of a small mutant group based in Harlem. Ahmad doesn't consider the Reclamation Squad a mutant group, though, as much as he thinks of it as a mission -- a mission to save his neighborhood and its people from beyond the brink of collapse. 

"Nah, gotta take a rain check, bro'," replies Jerome. "My boo is gonna kill me if I don't get back in an hour. I'll just step out, say hello, drive on back." 

"Suit yourself, J," says Ahmad as he opens the door and steps out of the car. Monica follows behind him, while Jerome opens his door and gets up to lean against it as Jean Grey walks out to greet the mansion's guests. 

"Hello, Ahmad, Monica," she says in a friendly tone as she walks down the front stairs. "Good to see you again." 

"Wish I could say the same, Jean," replies Ahmad, smiling nervously. 

"Don't worry about a thing, Ahmad," says Jean. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You want to try and do new things with your powers, and we're here to help. We've all been through the same thing." 

"We all know, Jean," says Monica. "Ahmad's ego is just getting the better of him with this." 

"I guess," says Ahmad, motioning back to his brother. "Jean, this is my brother, Jerome. Jerome, Jean Grey." 

"What's up?", says Jerome, who waves hello at Jean. "You guys are gonna take care of his return trip, right?" 

"Of course," says Jean. "Thank you for bringing them up here." 

"It ain't nothin'," replies Jerome. "He's my brother, right?" 

The door opens behind Jean, and a statuesque woman with smooth brown skin and shoulder-length white hair steps outside. Her new, navy blue, navel-revealing uniform attracts everyone's attention. "Ahmad," says Jean, "this is Ororo Munroe. She'll be leading your training session today." 

Jerome's jaw drops at the sight of her. "Ya know," he begins, "I *might* be able to stick around for a little while." 

Monica flashes a bright red holographic stop sign in front of Jerome. "Your boo is waiting," she says. 

Jerome looks back at Ororo and sighs. "My boo is waiting," he says, nodding reluctantly. "Don't hurt nobody in there, a'ight, Aq?" 

Ahmad nods and grins at his brother. They flash peace signs at each other as Jerome gets in the car and pulls away from the mansion. "Shall we?", says Ororo. 

Ahmad looks at Monica on his side and takes a deep breath. "Let's do this," he says. 

--- 

"We only have a limited amount of time this afternoon, Ahmad," says Ororo from the control room. 

"I am *not* going in there like this," replies Ahmad's voice through the speaker. 

"Come on, baby," says Monica. "You gonna have to do it sooner or later." 

Ahmad's sigh rings through the control room. "A'ight," he says. A door opens inside the Danger Room, the X-Men's training facility. Ahmad walks in, a bit embarassed by the blue and gold training uniform he wears for this session. He holds his arms out at Ororo and Monica, grinning to seek their approval. 

"Mm, mm, mm," says Monica, "you sexy thang." 

Ahmad snorts. "I can't believe y'all even wear these," Ahmad says at Ororo. 

"For a time, we wore that uniform in combat as well as in training," she replies. "You might be surprised by its flexibility, which enhances its effectiveness." 

"Well, you'll excuse me if I don't adopt it for the Squad," Ahmad replies. 

"But what if I look good in it, too?", says Monica. 

Ahmad pauses. "We could check that out later." Monica cocks and eyebrow back at him. 

"Okay, Aqua," says Ororo, interrupting their flirtations to get down to business, "the goal of this training session is to get from one side of the room to the other, then press the red button to complete the session. You will be given a multitude of situations which will require some problem solving, quick thinking and reaction times, as well as tests on using your powers, especially tests involving pressure and temperature. We would like to see how much force is behind your water blasts, as well as how much you can adjust their temperature. At your request, there will be tests on using your blasts to make yourself airborne. Are you ready?" 

"As I'll ever be," Ahmad replies. 

Ororo presses a few buttons, and a computerized voice comes over the loudspeaker. "Initiating Danger Room Sequence A-P-zero-zero-one. Commencing now." 

A giant set of walls rises in front of Aqua, presenting a maze for him to traverse. He points his fists toward the ground and begins shooting forceful streams of water toward the ground in an effort to give himself some lift and look over the walls. He can feel himself barely inching off the ground before he tires himself. 

"Don't push yourself too hard too quickly, Ahmad," says Ororo. "Take your time. It will come to you." 

Ahmad nods at her words and walks into the entrance of the maze. 

--- 

She stands in front of a hidden window overlooking the Danger Room, watching him with keen interest. She takes note of his expressions, his almost graceful movements, his precision control over his powers. He takes out one robot attacker after another with relative ease. In the midst of an ambush, his adrenaline alone allows him to shoot a powerful enough spray from his hands that he flies toward a tall robot and kicks out its faceplate, signifying the robot's defeat. 

He is not a mutant to her. He is a revolutionary. He makes people forget his mutancy by fighting to make their lives better, their homes safer. She has heard tales of potential peace, possibly glory, from so many people who have led her astray. She should have stopped believing such dreams were possible long ago. His dream, however, is a universal dream, not a mutant dream. That means something more. 

"Skids?" 

His gruff voice belies his concern for her. Though he rarely ever shows it, the man called Cable is concerned for not only his charges and their friends, but for much of the world as they know it, and as he knows it. He heard she had left her room for the first time in weeks, and he doesn't know why he is the first person bold enough to approach her. He only knows that he wants to help. 

"I...heard you had walked down here to watch this session," Cable says, wringing his hands. "Jean thought you might like a little company." 

"He's different somehow," Skids replies, her eyes still fixed on the Danger Room below. "He's not out to save mutants, or to fight the world. He just wants to help out. Why didn't anyone else think of that?" 

"Sometimes the world doesn't give you the chance," replies Cable. He can almost feel the bitterness in her sigh smack him across the face. "Look, Skids--" 

"Sally," she interrupts. 

"What?" 

"My name is Sally. Don't bother with the code names. They don't really mean anything anymore, since everyone knows who we all are, anyway." 

Cable runs a techno-organic hand through his white hair. He has seen military battles as fierce as the world has ever known, but moments when he related to others on a more emotional, more human level have been few and far between. 

"Sally, don't think I don't know what you're going through," he says. "I saw my wife murdered in combat myself a long time ago. There are people here who care what happens to you." 

Cable notes how she bites her lower lip, her agititation clearly visible to him. He presses on gently. He feels he has to. 

"I talked to Tabitha and the others a few days ago," he says finally. "They wanted to extend to you an open invitation to join X- Force, if you're interested." 

"What for?", she says, turning an angry stare in his direction. "To be part of another little mutant team running around making the world hate us a little more? To go on a bunch of bogus missions under the auspices of human-mutant togetherness? Forget it, mister. If you and all your X-commandos gave a damn about me, you would have come to get me and Rusty a long time ago." 

Cable tries his best to restrain himself. "It's not that easy, Sally..." 

"It's not?", she replies, her voice rising furiously. "Try growing up in a broken home with an abusive father! Try being a political prisoner abandoned by all the folks that you thought loved you! You people act like you're on some kind of holy war against the rest of the planet, like being a mutant and being right are the only things that matter anymore. It's all a crock of shit! It always has been." 

She turns back to the Danger Room. "Take a look at this man, Cable," she says. "He's not out to prove to the world that mutants are people, too. He's out to keep drug dealers away from the playgrounds in his neighborhood. He's out to keep little girls from getting shot by stray bullets in their own homes. He's out to help improve schools so that kids won't want to drop out, so that they'll have a future. 

"There's no future here, Cable -- just the same old rhetoric and dogfighting there's always been. There's a whole world out there beyond this little mutant mansion, and it's falling apart at the seams, and not just because we exist. Maybe if you opened your eyes, you would see it." 

Cable doesn't answer her. He has seen too much of the future to believe that the cause for mutant rights will not be crucial to this world's survival. As he turns and walks out of the corridor, however, he cannot shake the notion that she has a point, that somebody has to find other ways to make the world a better place... 

--- 

"He's progressing very well," says Ororo, looking over the readouts on the monitors in front of her. 

"Are you kiddin'?", Monica replies. "He's doin' stuff down there I've never seen him do before, and I've seen him do more than anyone." 

"He has done a lot, hasn't he?", says Ororo. 

Monica looks back at her, sensing she means something else. "Yeah," she says, "he has. He's turned more negatives into positives than any man I've ever known....starting with me." 

"Really?", says Ororo. 

"When I first realized I could make these holographic images that I make," Monica begins, "I was scared to death of 'em. I didn't know if I was gonna hurt someone, or myself, or anything. I turned into this shy little thing that could barely face anyone at school or on my block, spending most of my time in my room, living in some little fantasy world, with all these images around me." 

"How long were you like this?", asks Ororo. 

Monica exhales at the thought of it. "At *least* three years." 

"Bright lady," Ororo whispers as she recoils slightly. 

"I know," Monica says, "and everyone looked at me funny, because I was never like that before. I was just another girl on the block, and then all of the sudden I hid from people -- friends, family, teachers, everybody. Ahmad was one of the few people who took the time to talk to me. That's when I started gettin' a little crush on him. 

"Anyway, one day we had a big family get-together in our building, and I was up in my room when Uncle Adam...." Monica purses her lips. "Well, I don't wanna talk about what happened with Uncle Adam, but let's just say a few uncontrolled images kept it from bein' any worse than it was. 

"So I ran out the building and hid in the basement next door. That's where Ahmad found me -- it was his dad's building, and he went down there every so often just to think about things. He saw I was cryin', though, and he couldn't think of any way to calm me down. So he decided to let me in on his little secret. I watched him squirt water out of his hands, and he told me he was a mutant, and how he's used his powers before to help his folks in the building." 

"It must have been a big relief for you," says Ororo. 

"Girl," Monica replies, "I walked right up to him and kissed him on the mouth." Ororo laughs. 

"I showed him what I could do," Monica continues, "and we were both so happy that we weren't alone in the world, we didn't know what to do. That's when Ahmad told me about his idea for the Reclamation Squad, and we agreed right then and there that we would be the ones to make it happen. The rest is history, I guess." 

"You have both done a wonderful job," says Ororo. "I have been paying close attention to your progress. You've done more for Harlem that I could have ever imagined." 

"You're not from there, are you?" 

"I was born in Harlem, actually. My parents met there many years ago. Father always talked about Harlem as a magical place, but when I visited there several years ago, it seemed so...empty, like a giant cage filled with forgotten souls. Luke Cage told me then that even as superheroes, we could save people from super-powered villians, but not from themselves." (-1-) 

"No kiddin'," says Monica. "Sounds like somethin' Cage would say." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Luke was a good guy and all, but when it came down to it, he was always a little more interested in his bank than his block. I think he could've done more for his people if he tried, but he got so wrapped up in that whole 'Hero for Hire' bit that he didn't think about it enough. Ahmad's dead set on not falling in that hole. About ninety percent of that clothing line money is going back into the community." 

"He wants to set an example, doesn't he?", says Ororo. 

"No question," replies Monica. "He's already doing it a little with the night watches he's put together. Why don't you come back with us tonight? We'll show you what we're doin'." 

"I wouldn't be interfering?" 

"Hell, no. Ahmad's already invited Jean to come with us. What'cha say?" 

"I would love to." 

"Hey!", shouts Ahmad from the Danger Room. "Y'all payin' any attention to this show or what?" 

"Keep workin' it, baby," says Monica into a microphone on the control panel. "We know you got it locked down." 

--- 

Cable sits in the kitchen and taps his finger on his coffee mug, thinking about the last few moments. All of the sudden, he finds himself questioning everything X-Force is about. While it does not shake his faith enough to change his mind, it makes him ponder what could be, what could have been. 

"I can't believe you wimped out." 

Despite her tone, he is actually comforted by the sound of her voice. "She had a point, Dom," he replies. 

"Like hell," retorts Domino. "You've been fighting for equality and human rights all your life, certainly a hell of a lot longer than this Aqua guy. I've seen your future, Nathan. I know we're doing the right thing." 

"I understand why we're fighting, Dom," he says. "I'm just wondering if we're really making the world a better place for mutants. We've won a lot of battles, but what have we done to really change people's minds about us? What separates us from the Acolytes or from Gene Nation?" 

"They want power," she replies. "We want justice." She cocks her head and looks up at Cable with a sly grin. "Simple as that." 

Cable smiles back at Domino. Hearing her words reminds him yet again why he put his trust in her more than anyone else over the years. 

"Computer," he says. "Locate Skids." 

*Designate: Skids is not on the grounds at the present time.* 

His smile fades. "Where'd she go?" 

*Information unknown.* 

"I bet I know," says Domino. 

"Should we go find her, then?", asks Cable. 

"We won't need to," she replies. "Mr. Parker will find her first." 

***** 

(-1-) Either UXM #122 or Classic X-Men #28 -- take your pick. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

CHAPTER THE FOURTH -- DO OR DIE 

Jeffrey leans back against the wall in his chair, its front two legs inches off the ground. He examines closely the shape of a small automatic pistol, its solid design, precision firing mechanism, and its long clip that ejects from the bottom. He finds this tool to be rather useless now. 

"Jeffrey..." 

He hears her voice in the holding cell to his left. Looking over his shoulder, he finds Theresa leaning against the bars, shaking nervously. 

"Sorry, girl," Jeffrey says to her. "We get our hits before you get yours." 

"Why, Jeffrey?", she says softly. "Why are you doing this?" 

"'Cause this is where the money's at," Jeffrey replies. "I was makin' bank when Terry was in charge, and I'm makin' even more now with Crystal." 

"But she abuses you," Theresa replies. "She treats you like trash." 

Jeffrey turns his eyes back to the gun in his hands. "Don't you remember when we were in school together, Jeffrey?", Theresa continues. "You were so bright. You could have been anything you wanted to be." 

"I'm a black man in America," Jeffrey interrupts, "a black *mutant* in America. There'll always be somethin' to hold me back." 

"That's not true." 

"The hell it isn't. I've lived here and seen shit happen here long enough to know that for a fact. That's why I'm here in the first place. Take a look at any ethnic group in this country -- they were all down with organized crime. That's how they rose up from poverty. We're gonna do the same one o' these days. Just watch." 

Theresa shuts her eyes and turns her head away from his grin. Gerald pokes his head through a doorway on the opposite wall. 

"Showtime, kid," he says. Jeffrey tosses the gun carelessly to his side and pulls a set of keys from his pocket. 

"Up and at 'em, girl," he says and he stands in front of the cell door. "We got some business to do." 

--- 

The night watch has arrived. 

Never mind the chill in the air or the relative dimness of the street lights. There are people on the streets tonight, carefully watching the block on which they live, the orange hardhats signaling their faith in the efforts to reclaim the places where they dwell and make them safe again. 

The neighborhood of Bedford-Stuyvescent, a remote corner of Brooklyn where a legacy of racial tensions still simmers among its residents, is the spot where the founders of the Reclamation Squad, Aqua and Image, and their guests -- Jean Grey and Ororo Munroe, the X-Men called Phoenix and Storm -- will stand watch on this night. Aqua and Image are mutants, making them different from everyone else in the area. They are also black. To the people of Bed-Stuy, that makes all the difference in the world. 

Ororo watches as groups of people around her clean up the streets in front of their buildings, stand watch together on corners with flashlights in hand, and chant anti-violence slogans as they march down the street, graciously accepting and applauding at the car horns shouting in their direction. She remembers the sights that greeted her in Harlem years ago, and for a moment, she feels their pride. 

"You have performed a miracle, Ahmad," she says. 

"There's always been a sense of community among us, Ororo," he replies. "It just took a little something to bring it out." 

"The two of you have certainly done that," says Jean. "You shouldn't be afraid to take credit for more than it." 

"Nonsense," he replies. "All I did was plant the seed. The people you see out here tonight are the ones that made it grow. They could have let the weeds come in and choke it out, but contrary to popular belief, most black people are more than eager to put in some hard work to advance themselves. We wanna rise up as much as you guys do." 

Jean and Ororo watch closely as Aqua and Image greet people, young and old, who walk up to them and tell them stories of how it was before, and how it could be now. 

"You know, with your popularity out here, Ahmad," Jean says, "you should run for office." 

"Hell, no," he replies. "All politicians ever do is try to get elected. That's why I'm out here instead of in some public office -- you gotta take care of the roots to take care of the tree." 

"A salaam alaikum, Aqua." A man in a heavy overcoat, bow tie and hardhat walks up to greet the group underneath a street lamp. 

"Alaikum a salaam, Shawn," Aqua replies, shaking hands with him. He was once called Shawn Wilson, and he was another face in a crowded, angry Brooklyn. The birth of his son three years ago, however, changed the course of his life. He became Brother Shawn X, welcomed with open arms by the Nation of Islam, who helped him renew his self- respect and pride in his people. 

"What's the science?", asks Aqua. 

"Elevation," Shawn replies. "The 85 percent are gaining knowledge as we speak. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, it appears our homes should be safe tonight." 

"You mean like a certain 'mutant terrorist group'?", says Image. 

"So you have heard about the bank robbery," says Shawn. 

"Yeah, it was on the radio while we were on the road," Aqua replies. "I hate hearin' about that shit. That builds up every stereotype against mutants in the book, not to mention a couple of black ones. She could've been down with us and helped us build a little somethin' somethin'." 

"True," Shawn says, "but you can't reach everybody." 

"You reach who you can, Shawn," replies Aqua. "You're down with the Nation, kid. I thought you knew." 

--- 

She walks down to the subway station, moving like a fist through the crowd, just another ordinary girl in a black leather jacket, blue sweatshirt and jeans, her eyes angry at the world around her. Drop the token, step through the turnstile, wait for the train and the rush of the people. She takes a seat in the corner of a lonely car, every outward appearance demanding the world to stay away. 

Some people don't listen. 

Cli-clack. "Gimme yours, girl." 

One is black, one is white, one is hispanic. All three are of like mind. Point the pistol, cock the hammer, make the order, watch as their victim whimpers at their mercy. 

"No." 

They don't understand that part. 

"Say what?", says the white thug, who stands at the point holding the gun to her head. "Yo, perhaps you didn't notice here, but I got this gat pointed at your head--" 

"I said NO!", she says, standing up from her seat and facing them. "If you want what's mine, you'll have to kill me for it." 

"Your world, bitch," the thug replies, aiming his gun at her forehead and firing three times. Three times the bullets ricochet off her forehead and shatter the windows of the train. Only now do these stick-up kids notice the dull glow that surrounds the girl's outline. They don't understand that part, either. 

"It'll take a little more than that," she replies. 

Their jaws drop collectively as she takes the pistol away from one, surrounds it with her fist and smacks him across the face with it. She pounds into him furiously with her hands, her knees, his gun, prompting the hispanic robber to pull out his switchblade and thrust it into her stomach. He could almost feel the blade curl as he pushed it into her. 

"It'll take more than that, too." 

The knife goes flying, and the fists take over. He throws, yet even the punches square in the stomach don't seem to connect. She cannot miss, for she can almost sense where he will be after each punch. She definitely knows where he'll be when it's over -- slamming against the metal corner of the train, falling unconscious to the floor. 

She turns to the last robber, who holds his gun nervously as she slowly walks toward him. He fires at her head, but it ricochets away. He fires at her chest, but it ricochets away. He fires at her leg, but it ricochets away. He backs quickly into the corner of the train, sweating and shaking as she stands over him. 

"I scare you, don't I?", she says. "You watch as the bullets bounce off of me, and your fear of me overcomes you. She can't be shot, she can't be slashed, she can't be hurt. Can she?" 

She wrests the gun from his hand and points the handle at him. "More importantly, however, can you?" 

With one swift motion, the handle pounds against his temple, and he slumps to the floor as the trains brakes screech toward the next destination. She prepares to exit through the opening side doors when a police officer opens the end door and prepares for action. 

"Police! Stay where you...are..." 

He sees the robbers strewn across the floor. Then he sees the girl look back at him in disgust. 

"Took you long enough," she says. 

He watches her exit the train, both her anger and anguish silent in the tunnels under New York City. 

--- 

A lone voice in the middle of the street disturbs the relative peace of the cool evening. "Don't y'all see? Don't y'all know what they're doin' to ya?" 

Everyone's head turns to see a young man with a deep green parka, black hat and earmuffs, and gold fronts on his teeth walking down the middle of the road. 

"They're dividin' us up!", the man shouts, pointing at the Reclamation Squad. "They're tryin' to pit us against each other!" 

"Yo, kid," Aqua says, "from what I'm seein', the only one that's standin' against all of us is you. What's up with that?" 

"How can they stand with you?", is the man's reply. "How can they support you knowing what you are?" 

"'Cause they know I'm a black man," Aqua returns. "I've stood up for my people as much as anyone else here. What are you doin' for yourself, kid?" 

A small crowd of hardhats gather along the sidewalks on either side of the street. "Black man, my ass!", says the man in the street. "You might as well be white, yellow, blue or gray or purple 'cause you ain't even a man! Ain't nothin' but a germ-carryin' mutie! Ain't y'all heard about that Legacy Virus all them muties got?" 

"Oh, no," whispers Jean. "It's the FOH." 

"The what?", asks Shawn. 

"The ten percent," replies Image. Shawn nods, then turns back to the man on the street. 

"My brother," says Shawn, "you sound much like the devils that claimed ownership to our ancestors. Tell me, what difference is there between 'mutie' and 'nigger,' my brother?" The crowd of hardhats begins clapping. 

"You wanna hear some differences?", says the man in the street, pointing at Aqua and Image. "Don't look at the color of his skin -- look at the color of his DNA. He can shoot water from his hands. She can create images out of thin air. They ain't friends -- they *threats*. They out to wipe out every human on the planet, them muties. How can us humans look at them and think that they our friends?" 

Normally, Jean Grey doesn't use her telepathic powers without the permission of the mind she reads, but her suspicions about the intentions of this man in the street give her pause. It is then she sees that the man is only a lure, a device to bring Aqua out in the open. She looks to the roof of a nearby building, sensing someone there. 

It is then that she hears the sound of a gun shot, and with her telekinetic powers, she angrily freezes the bullet in its path, inches away from Aqua's chest. He watches in shock as the cheated bullet falls harmlessly to the ground. 

The panic begins. The crowd scatters, barring several Nation of Islam members on various corners, who pull out weapons of their own and lead others to safety in other buildings. More sniper fire caroms off the sidewalk as Aqua, Image, Phoenix and Storm take cover behind a car on their left. 

"Hold up, nigga," says the man in the parka, who now stands over Aqua with a 9mm pistol pointed at Aqua's head. 

Cli-clack. "Drop it." 

The man looks over and sees Shawn X on his right, pointing a rather large pistol at the man's temple. 

"You missin' the point, God," the man says. "He don't deserve to live." 

"Neither do you, devil," says Shawn. "If negativity is your twenty-two, positivity is my forty-five. The five percent stand by the Reclamation Squad and what they believe. Are you willing to bet your life that we might not?" 

The man shakes his head and lowers the gun to the ground. As he gets up again, Shawn X disappears. 

"What the--" 

He doesn't have time to react to the furious cold spray of water striking his face, nor does he have the time to stop the wind that blows him to the other side of the street. 

"Teamwork is such a beautiful thing," says Aqua, smiling back at Image and Storm. Another shot is fired into the night, ricocheting off the hood of the car. He sees the real Shawn X leaning against a street lamp on the corner, pointing his gun at the roof. 

"No, Shawn," Aqua shouts, getting his attention. "We can take care of this. Get everyone else out of here!" Shawn disappears behind the corner as another shot shatters the car windows. 

"Enough of this," says Storm, standing up in plain sight. "Jean, put a telekinetic shield around us all. We must confront this would-be murderer." 

Jean puts up an invisible shield around them, and they jog out into the emptied street. Another bullet ricochets harmlessly away. As the next shot is fired, however, they hear a scream, then thud of a body against metal. 

"What was that?", says Storm. 

"Over there," says Image, catching sight of a hand hanging out of a dumpster and pointing to it. The quartet jogs to the opposite corner of the street, where Image catches sight of the sniper lying face up in the dumpster, his clothes shredded, his blood pouring out all over himself. 

"Oh, God." Image recoils at the sight and turns toward Aqua, burying her head in his chest. Aqua hugs her, then gently edges her aside, taking a look inside the dumpster. 

"God damn," he says. "His whole body has been sliced open...by glass. Looks like somebody wanted this guy pretty bad." 

"Not as much as we want you." 

Aqua looks up to see three thugs standing in a line at the other end of the alley. A woman in a beige trenchcoat walks in front of them. 

"A is for Aqua," she begins, "B is for burnin', C's for catchin' bodies like Erick gives a sermon. Takin' out all y'all suckers with my plan of attack..." 

She takes off the coat, revealing a skin-tight black bodysuit, a jagged white line rising from the left toe to her shoulder. 

"...Make way for the pimpstress they call Crystal Black." 

------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

CHAPTER THE FIFTH -- FRAGILE 

She runs against the path of the crowd, pushing her way to the scene of the sniper fire. She knows she can help. She can feel herself getting stronger. As Sally Blevins sees the wind, lightning and water sprays coming from the alley, though, she wonders if she is too late. 

"By the goddess, I am out of control!" 

Ororo Munroe, the X-Man known as Storm, is called wind-rider for a reason -- she's capable of controlling the elements of the weather. Watching her lose control of that power, however, can be a frightening experience, as sparks of static electricity dance on her body, while winds swirl about her, lifting her into the air in a kinetic fury. 

Her companions don't appear to be fairing any better. Ahmad Parker, the Reclamation Squad leader called Aqua, stumbles out of the alley and crumbles against the corner of a building, parts of his clothes spurting water like a busted main. Aqua's partner, Monica Chavis a/k/a Image, folds her arms to try and cover her hands, which still manage to produce small holograms of fairy-tale queens, dragons and knights on white horses, images that surround her arms and shoulders. Jean Gray, the X-Man called Phoenix, is on her knees, her hands grabbing her head, struggling to rid itself of a sudden psychic backlash. 

She thinks for a moment that she can hear Phoenix's jumbled thoughts. "Psychic backlash...too many thoughts," the X-Man sems to say, "can't get control of them all. Haven't felt like this...since I first met Michael Nowlan..." (-1-) 

At the other end of the alley stands a statuesque woman with smooth tan skin and long bronze curls that flow in Storm's wind. Crystal Black stands and smiles devilishly at the scene playing out in front of her. 

"Take your pick, Jeffrey," she says. 

The shortest of the thugs immediately points his finger like a gun at Storm. "Say goodnight, honey," he says to her. As he prepares to fire a bullet from his finger, however, Storm unknowingly finds a lightning rod for her energy. The bolt violently pushes Jeffrey backwards, and he lands unconscious on the road behind the alley. 

Crystal stands aghast. "You bitch!", she shouts. "Wallace, Gerald, take 'em out." 

The tallest of the group immediately ducks below the winds and shoots a frigid blast at Phoenix and Storm. The icy blast swirls around Storm and into the air, but Phoenix feels its brunt as she sees an icy lair form on her telekinetic shield, it's far-below freezing temperatures sending shivers through her entire body. 

"Caught us...off-guard," she thinks. "Barely have...control... Wait...that voice..." 

In the midst of the frigid air and jumbles of thoughts, Phoenix isolates a small, frightened voice in her mind. "Help me," it whispers. "Dear God, please help me..." 

"Thanks for setting up red for me, Wallace," says the last thug as the long trail of plasma balls rises from his hands. He shatters Phoenix's TK shield like glass, as Phoenix backs away from him, too shaken from the both the cold and her own power enhancement to defend herself. 

Gerald raises his whip into the air. "Audi five, ho," he says. 

The whip falls on Phoenix, snapping harmlessly off the sudden glow that surrounds her. 

"Don't worry, guys," a voice says. "I've got you." 

Phoenix takes note of the covering that surrounds both her and Storm, then looks behind her, stunned by who she sees. 

"Skids!", she shouts. "What are you doing here?" 

"Trying to help," Skids replies. "You looked like you needed it." 

Skids' sudden appearance catches the thugs by surprise, allowing Storm, still shielded by Skids' protective field, to blow all of them out of the alley with a furious gust of wind. She immediate raises the temperature around her and gracefully lands on the pavement. 

"Thank you, Skids," says Storm. "Your sense of timing is excellent." 

"I know," Skids replies. "It comes from years on the run." 

Phoenix' head turns back to the end of the alley, empty but for the silent prayer of a stranger invisible to their eyes. 

"Hail Mary, full of grace," it whispers, "the Lord is with thee..." 

"Someone's over there," says Phoenix, pointing to the far corner of the alley. "We have to help her." 

"Maybe you should take another look around." All three heads swing toward Crystal Black's voice. She stands to their right, holding Image in front of her. A long glass blade juts from her extended thumb and rests precariously on the edge of Image's chin. 

"I don't know what you miss thangs are doin' in Bucktown," says Crystal, "but you messed with the wrong bitch tonight, 'cause now I got Aqua's girl, and ain't none o' y'all messin' with this, else there'll be necks open all night like a Seven-Eleven." 

"How arrogant are you, lady?", says Skids unabashedly. "You honestly think you can take down the rest of us?" 

Crystal slowly edges the blade upward, while Image's head tilts back to avoid getting cut. "It don't matter," Crystal replies. "I cut the Reclamation Squad in half, and I've already won. You talk up a good game. Make your move." 

A silent bullet flies through the air, chopping the glass blade in half. As a surprised Crystal sees the drop of water on the shattered blade, more bullets fly through the air, shattering her hand and her forearm. Image immediately breaks free and runs toward the women in front of her, turning only briefly to see a sight she never would have expected -- her fiance floating in mid-air, gusts of steam pouring out of his pantlegs, a small sphere of water surrounding his fist. He looks at Crystal with eyes as translucent as the water he now commands. 

"Hands off my boo." 

Crystal replies with a flattering, flirtacious grin and a stream of glass shards from her quickly-rebuilt right hand. Aqua's fist fires a powerful stream at the flying glass, sending broken pieces flying in every direction. Skids quickly envelops Image in her protective shield, the projectiles bouncing harmlessly off of it. 

"This woman tires me," says Storm. "Let's join this fight." 

"No," implores Image. "Not yet. This is Aqua's fight. Let him do it." 

As Storm silently and begrudgingly concedes, Aqua flies upward to dodge a crystal blade, then turns to toss a ball of water against Crystal's stomach. The shattered glass rips part of her uniform, but the hollow shell revealed underneath is rebuilt by more glass, growing from the jagged edges of her cracked torso and meeting in the middle. 

"So you're as hollow as your mission in this town, aren't you Crystal?", says Aqua. 

"What you care about my shit?", returns Crystal, forming a saw blade in her hand. A blast from Aqua's fist shatters the blade in pieces. 

"This is my home," Aqua replies, landing gently on his feet. "I care about everything that happens in my home. You brought violence into my home, and I ain't havin' it." 

--- 

Just around the corner of the alley, Theresa Miller lay crouched underneath a black blanket, her hands and feet tied, her mouth duct- taped. She hears the battle taking place behind her. 

It's all her fault, she thinks. Her mere presence is enhancing everyone else's mutant powers. If only she were to get away from this place. She tries roll away from the corner, struggling to free herself from her bonds. 

--- 

"Guess we can't all live the charmed life, huh?", says Crystal. 

"Charmed life?", says Aqua. "You make it sound like I've never been harassed by white cops, like I've never been accused of shoplifting by a suspicious store clerk, like I've never been dissed by employers because of my skin color. I'm as black as you are, and as much a mutant, too. The only difference is that you turned bad, so it's my job to take you out, to protect my people." 

"Whatcha gonna do, Aqua, drown me?", Crystal says. 

"Whatever works for you," Aqua replies, raising a fist that fires a hard spray, shattering Crystal's left leg. She stumbles to the ground, but her leg quickly grows back, and her free hand waves toward him, shooting a wall of glass shards at him. Aqua raises his hands, and hundreds of independent streams shoot each projectile down. 

"Damn," says Image. 

"Amazing," says Storm. "He couldn't do a fraction of these things in the Danger Room." 

"Not bad," says Crystal, rising up from the ground. "Now try that times six." 

She waves both hands back and forth, firing a barrage of tiny missiles at him. As the wall of glass flies toward Ahmad, his fists shoot a wide-reaching spray that forces all the glass coming directly at him to his sides. Much of it flies harmlessly away, save for a few pieces, which catch Theresa Miller just as she rolls out from underneath her blanket. She feels the projectiles slash at her shoulder, her elbow, her cheek. 

Aqua hears a muffled scream in the darkness behind him and turns his head to look for its source. Crystal sees Aqua look away and smiles. I have him now, she thinks, and she raises her hand and forms a sharp-edged glass triangle to throw at him. 

"No!", shouts Skids. She raises a fist toward Aqua, and the glow that surrounds her stretches toward the man who brought her here. He won't end like this, she thinks. He won't. 

Crystal hurls the triangle at the unaware Aqua. Only at the last moment does she see the glow from Skids' hand race the blade, giving her no time to think her main goal tonight will not be fulfilled. 

The spinning triangle strikes Aqua in the back. He flinches at the sensation of something striking him, turning to see the shattered weapon fall at his feet. He looks up at the source of the glow surrounding him, seeing it stretch from the fist a young woman he has never met before, a fire in her eyes like none he has ever seen. 

He looks back at Crystal and points his fists toward her, firing four furious sprays at Crystal that shatter both her arms and legs. As she falls forward to the ground, the parts of her that break apart quickly grow back. She rises up to her knees and prepares to stand when she notices that her foot is missing. An open hole at the end of her leg is there in its place. She looks at her hand and sees more open holes where her fingers used to be. She touches her hands to her face and her hair, feeling nothing but the clink of glass upon glass. The enhancements that the junkie gave her are gone. 

"No," she says desperately, crying out to the heavens from her knees. "NOOOOOOO!!!!" 

Aqua's eyes glaze over with water, and liquid bullets fly from his eye sockets, shattering her arms, her legs, her torso. She falls back to the ground in shock, nearly all of her breaking across the pavement. 

As Image runs to the edge of the alley to look for the girl that screamed earlier, Aqua walks up to the shattered figurine lying by the edge of the dumpster. All that remains of her are her upper chest, shoulders and her head, the back of which has an open hole. He sees those crystal shoulders moving, as if she is still hyperventilating. 

"I guess you can't die in your glass form, can you?", says Aqua. 

"No," Crystal replies. "All someone has to do is sweep me up, and I'll form myself again, and I'll return to show this ghetto the villain it created." 

"Bucktown didn't create you, Crystal," says Aqua. 

"Bullshit," Crystal retorts. "This town left me with no hope, no dreams, no chance to succeed, except as a hooker and a criminal. So I took all I had and made something out of it." 

"And look where it left you," Aqua replies. "Nobody else chose you to be a hooker. Nobody else chose you to be murderer. Nobody made those choices but you -- you, Crystal. You reap what you sow, girl, and now you ain't nothing but a broken glass doll." 

He can still feel the evil stare from her transparent glass eyes. "I'll rise up from this, you bastard," she says. "I'll rise up and show you you're wrong." 

Aqua grins. "You're blind, baby," he says. "You've been blinded by your own ambitions." He points his fist at her face. "And until someone finds you here, blind you shall be." 

A blast of water from his fist shatters her head and spreads pieces of glass in every direction. He stands over her for a moment, and he cannot help but think about what might have been. 

"Aqua!" Image's shout turns Aqua's attention, and he runs out the alley way to find Image trying to untie a young woman on the ground next to her. 

"She's bleeding pretty badly," says Image. Phoenix, Skids and Storm follow behind Aqua as he rips off part of his shirt and uses it as a tourniquet on the girl's arm. Water bullets from his fingers loosen the handcuffs and ropes that tie her, and as she picks her up in his arms to carry her, Phoenix immediately recognizes her. 

"The voice crying for help," she says softly. "She was the one praying, the one enhancing our powers..." 

Aqua looks down at the passed out girl, then back at the three in front of her. "Try to keep up with me," he says, steam from his pantlegs lifting him up from the ground and allowing him to fly away. 

"Ahmad," shouts Image. "Wait!" He doesn't turn back, flying away. 

"Amazing," says Storm. "He develops control over his enhanced powers so quickly." 

"Why did he fly off?", says Phoenix. "We could have helped her right here." 

"I bet it slipped his mind," says Image. "He was thinkin' hospital all the way. I know where he's goin', too." 

"Then lead the way," says Phoenix. "I'll fly us all there." 

They rise into the night sky with the help of Phoenix's telekinesis, leaving the alley quiet, empty and cold behind them. As what remains of Crystal Black lies in pieces along the alley, the sound of footsteps echoes along the building walls. The shoes that make those steps stop over the mess, slowly guiding broken glass into a pile until her head grows back. She blinks her eyes and sees a dark figure in a black fedora and trenchcoat standing over her. 

"Mister Christoper," she says, almost cowering from his presence. 

"I'm very disappointed, Crystal," the figure says. "I was certain you knew the control Aqua possessed, even around your power enhancer." 

"It isn't over, Mister Christopher," she says. "I'm not beaten yet." 

The figure sighs. "You have beaten yourself, Crystal," he says. "You were beaten even before you faced Aqua, for you made yourself much too public. Terry always knew the value of a low profile, but you wished for fame and power too much. Could you not see how young Wallace chafed at your bridle? He held back his powers in this battle, which in turn cost you the early victory." 

"I can still bring in the dead presidents, Mister Chri-" 

"No, Crystal." He picks what remains of her up from the ground. "You have wasted your opportunity. Perhaps your genetic matrix will be of more use to me, however." 

He puts the broken glass woman under his arm and disappears. 

--- 

"I need a doctor here!" 

Aqua immediately runs into the emergency room, the girl in his arms still dripping blood. A doctor and an EMS team runs out to greet him. 

"What's the story, mister?", says the doctor. 

"She's been cut pretty badly," says Aqua. "She's lost a lot of blood and needs plenty of help." 

"You know her?", says the doctor. 

"I found her like this." 

"Hey, aren't you that Reformation Squad guy?", says a nurse. 

"Don't look at me," Aqua commands. "She's the one that needs help." 

"Hey, let's get a stretcher in here," shouts the doctor, and one follows immediately. "It's Aqua, right?" 

"For what it's worth." 

"Do you know *anything* about this girl?" 

Another voice emerges from the waiting room. "I have seen her," says a priest in the doorway. For a moment, everyone looks toward him. "Her name is Theresa. She is a heroin addict." 

The doctor takes her out of Aqua's arms and puts her as gently as possible on the stretcher. "Does she have any diseases you know of?" 

"No," replies the priest, "but she is a mutant." 

For a split second, the entire medical team freezes. "Alright, get the box," says the doctor. 

"Get the *what*?", says Aqua. 

"It's a precaution!", the doctor shouts firmly. "We'll treat her like anyone else. Just back off!" 

Aqua raises his hands and steps away as the doctor leads the medical team into the ER. Aqua runs a hand over his hair in frustration and looks back at the priest, who senses that frustration immediately, but cannot do anything else but watch the man before him. Aqua sighs and looks away. 

***** 

(-1-) Jean Grey and her teammates first encountered mutant power- enhancer Robert Nowlan in X-Factor #5. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

CHAPTER THE SIXTH -- THE TURNING POINT 

"Kevlar?", asks Jean. 

"Monica came up with the name," replies Sally. "I said something about being bullet-proof, and it just came to her." 

"Are you sure you're prepared to do this?", questions Ororo. "It has not been long since Avalon." (-1-) 

"I know," says Sally, "and I still miss Rusty terribly, but in a way, I'm doing this *for* Rusty. I know he would love the Reclamation Squad if he could see them." 

"Perhaps it is foolish of me to suggest so," Ororo says, "but have you considered that the people of Harlem may look upon you differently because of your skin color?" 

"I look at it this way, Ororo," says Image as she walks up hospital hallway toward them. "She's known oppression, violence and bigotry all her life. We just have to fill her in on our back story." 

Sally smiles. "Don't worry about me, guys," she says to Jean and Ororo. "After all that's happened, I'm still here fightin'." 

"You know you're welcome to come back to the mansion at any time," says Jean. 

"Thanks, but no," Sally replies. "I've seen too much already to return to Xavier's. His dream just doesn't seem like it means anything anymore. It isn't just about helping mutants to me. It's about helping everyone, no matter who they are. That's what it always should have been." 

Jean smiles back at Sally. "If you really believe that," she says, "then you still believe in the dream more than you know." 

--- 

Ahmad Parker sits hunched over in the waiting room, his elbows on his knees, his hands wringing, his mind whispering a silent prayer for a woman he never met until this evening. 

"Aren't you the man on TV?", a voice says. 

He looks up at the boy on his right, noting the quizzical look in his stare. 

"Yeah," says Ahmad. "I guess, if that's where you've seen me." 

"My mommy doesn't like you," says the boy. 

"Why's that?" 

"She says you're a mutant, and that all mutants are bad." 

Ahmad cannot help but grin at the boy's words. "Well, mamas are pretty knowledgable," he says to the boy, "but they don't always know everything. Everyone's got good and bad in 'em. It's just a matter of what comes out." 

"Do mutants make the bad come out?" 

"Nah, anyone can make the bad come out. You have to fight to bring the good out. It's always a struggle, but it's worth it in the long run." 

"How do I bring the good out?" 

Ahmad smiles. "Free your mind and follow your soul, little man," he says. "You'll be a'ight." 

"Let's go, Billy." The boy turns to his mothers voice, walks up to her and takes her hand. Her scared, suspicious gaze doesn't leave Ahmad until the boy is secure in her grip. A cool and collected Ahmad stares right back at the woman, his eyes screaming to her that she is wrong. The boy waves back at him as he is pulled down the hallway. 

"You can't reach everybody, can you?", says Shawn X as he walks into the room and leans against the doorway. 

"You reach who you can, Shawn," Ahmad replies. "You start with the children, before they learn otherwise." 

"I know," says Shawn, his thoughts turning to his own son. "It takes a tribe to raise a child. Gotta make sure the tribe is in order." 

Ahmad cocks a brow at Shawn. He knows immediately the person to whom Shawn refers. "Why you gotta be like that, man?" 

"Is this a wise decision, Ahmad?" 

"She needs someone right now, Shawn. Why not us?" 

"Why not Xavier?" 

"She's been there, and she insists she's not going back. After hearing her story, I don't blame her." 

"But what will the community think of this girl? We know the struggles our people have been through, but this girl has--" 

"This is a black thing, isn't it?" 

The remark stops Shawn cold. "What do you mean?" 

"You know exactly what I mean," Ahmad replies, standing up to face him. "This is a black thing. We're allowing a white girl to join our team, and now you're saying we're going to lose any support we might have. Aren't you?" 

"It is a concern, yes." 

"A concern. Look, you said it yourself, Shawn -- what is the difference is between 'nigger' and 'mutie'? Not a damn thing. The same ten percent that oppressed us is now trying to oppress them as well. We're all in a constant struggle just to stay alive, let alone make something of ourselves in this world. She's been through just as much as we've been through because of what she is, as opposed to who she is. That's what we're fighting, right? So as far as I'm concerned, she's more than welcome to be part of the Squad. And if your exalted brother minister has a problem with that, I'll tell him the same damn thing." 

"You and I both know that he will." 

"Then the two of you will have to deal with it. I love you guys for what you've done for some of our brothers out here, but I don't subscribe to everything you teach. Y'all gotta learn that mutants come in all shapes and colors, and while we don't have any common heritage in human terms, we've got plenty of common ground and plenty of opposition, and we got to work a little harder to come together and do this right. The question is, are you gonna let us?" 

"....I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?" 

"No, you don't. Kevlar is down with us whether you like it or not." 

Shawn nods at Ahmad's conviction. "A salaam alaikum, then." 

"Thank you," replies Ahmad. 

The doctor from the ER walks up to the doorway and looks inside at Ahmad. "The girl's okay now," he says. "You wanna talk to her?" 

"Sure," says Ahmad, who shakes Shawn's hand and follows the doctor down the hallway. 

"Tell me, doc," says Ahmad, "what exactly is 'the box?'" 

"It's a power dampener," the doctor replies. "Some rich guy named Essex donated it to us, said we could use it to treat mutants as we would regular people. We don't get a mutant in here but once in a blue moon, but it helps to have it around." 

"So you don't refuse treatment to mutants," says Ahmad. 

"Some docs do," the doctor says, "but if you ask me, HIV is a hell of a lot scarier." The doctor opens the door to the room and shows Ahmad inside. "The box is on right now, so you won't be able to use your power, either," he says. "She's still weak from losing so much blood, so be easy on her." 

Ahmad thanks the doctor and walks into the room, putting up a chair beside the hospital bed. The young woman in the bed, though moving slowly, is stunned by whom she sees. 

"You're...you're Ahmad Parker," she says. 

"Last time I checked," he replies with a wry smile. "You're Theresa, right?" 

"Yes," she replies. "How did you know?" 

"Docs told me. How you feelin'?" 

Theresa sighs. "How did you know I was here?" 

"We found you outside the alleyway where Crystal Black tried to take us out. Some stray glass cut into you out there, and you fell unconscious from losing so much blood. I flew you here to the hospital as quickly as I could." 

Theresa looks back at Ahmad in mild surprise. "You know, I don't know as much about mutant powers as I'd like to," Ahmad says, "but I do know some people that can help you out." 

"You...you can fly?", says Theresa. 

"Well, I never could before," he replies, "but since you enhanced my mutant powers, I could do a lot more things than usual around you." 

"But, Ahmad," she says, "I don't enhance mutant powers when I'm unconscious. You did that all by yourself." 

Ahmad's eyes shoot wide open. 

"I've told you once about your ability to control your powers." Ahmad turns behind him to see a tall man in a fedora and a long black trenchcoat casting a shadow in the doorway. "Now perhaps you can understand my interest in you, as well as the Morris boy," the man says. "Neither of you are aware of the infinite power in your possession. Perhaps now you will grasp how truly important you are to the world." 

Theresa cowers away from the man in her bed. "Stay away," she grunts. "Stay away from me." 

"You need not worry about me anymore, my dear," the man says. "Your job is done. Until we meet again, Mr. Parker." 

He puts his hand on the brim of his fedora and nods at Ahmad just before turning and walking down the hallway. "Wait a sec," says Ahmad, getting up from his chair to follow the man. "How do you know--" 

He looks down both ends of the long hallway, seeing no sign of the man in the long black coat. He stares down the hallway and ponders the man's words. Infinite power in your possession. The words echo through his mind. He had always thought of his mutant abilities as merely an extension of who he is. Now, he sees that they are much more than that. And he worries about what he might do. 

--- 

St. Anthony's Catholic Church. The following Sunday. 

Michael Allevato takes a good long look over the men and women in his congregation. He sees faces he has seen all his life, both young and old, waiting on his every word. He knows he will lose some of them today. No matter -- this priest will say what he believes is right. 

"I'd like to tell you about a young woman I met not too long ago. She was recently out of school. We began our conversation with some small talk: family, college, career, hobbies. Then, out of the blue she said, 'I don't feel at home in the Catholic Church any more. I don't fit in. The people I see at church on Sunday are not my people.' 

"I tried to explain how the church and community had changed while she was away, how we all have fears, doubts, uncertainties. Finally, she said to me, 'You don't understand, Father. I'm a mutant.' 

"In a split second the playing field changed. I backed off and began to listen, really listen. She grew up, came into adolescence, heard her peers use language and tell jokes about muties and genejokes and freaks. One day she said to herself, 'I'm one of them; they're talking about me. I didn't choose to be a mutant. I was born with this, and I have to live with this for the rest of my life.' 

"She told me about the churches she visited, churches of countless denominations, about how one minister told her she wasn't normal, and she could be fixed. Gradually, she realized that in the churches where she sought liberation, she found only oppression. 

"What about this woman? What about thousands like her, men as well as women? What do we say to them, not only as fellow human beings but as Catholics and Christians? Do we, like so many others, oppress mutants? Where do you stand? 

"This is a controversial issue. There are no easy answers. So many people are so quick to assume that mutants are a threat to our society, simply because they possess powers that others do not. Yet nobody chooses this. Nobody decides one day out of the blue, 'I'm going to be a mutant.' There is a distinction there between orientation and behavior. We look to the Bible as our guide, but the interpretations we hear always seem to condemn mutants. We hear in Genesis that man and angel together spawned mutant-like creatures, and God sent a great flood over the earth to remove them from the world. 

"But what does the Carpenter from Nazareth have to say about the subject? Should he even say anything? How people are born doesn't seem like a big deal to him. He had far more to say about rich people exploiting, oppressing and rejecting poor people. Jesus spoke in parables. One such parable tells of the farmer who plants a field of good wheat, but during the night an enemy comes over a spreads weed seeds all over the field. When the seeds come up, the servants want to pull up the weeds, but the farmer makes them wait until harvest when they can separate the wheat and the weeds. 

"Most would believe this parable has to do with people -- the wheat are the good people and the weeds, the bad people. I disagree with them. Jesus makes a distinction between good and bad, right and wrong. Good and bad have to do with people; right and wrong have to do with actions. Jesus called only a few people bad: the exploiters of the poor, and those who lay burdens on other people's backs which they themselves refuse to help and lift. They are the self-righteous, Jesus says. Good people do wrong things, but they're still good people. 

"Jesus says to us in this parable that good people have both wheat (right actions) and weeds (wrong actions) in their lives. Does he condemn the people? Does he reject them from the face of the earth? Does he deny them basic human rights? Does he relegate them to hell? Not on your life! 'Take it easy,' he says. 'Go slowly. God's in charge. There's wheat and weeds in everybody. They grow together. But God's at work in you -- with your cooperation, God will tear out what should be torn out, and in God's good Time.' 

"Jesus is not saying that anything goes. He's not saying that it doesn't matter what you do. He's not saying that there's no distinction between right and wrong. But he is saying that people whom society condemns for even the smallest, simplest of reasons are still good people. Condemning mutant terrorist acts is one thing; condemning mutant men and women is quite another matter. 

"An alcoholic could come up to this meeting right now and say, 'I'm an alcoholic. I struggle with it every day. If I'm going to be what I'm suppose to be it will be because of the grace of God and your support, the support of loving people like you.' And after his talk, everybody would embrace him or her and promise acceptance and support. Is the same true for a mutant? Could a mutant stand up here and say: 'I'm a mutant. If I'm going to be faithful to you, you need to know who I am, how I struggle. And I need your support, the support of loving people like you.' Would we embrace him or her? Would we promise acceptance and support? Or would we run away in fear? If we cannot accept people for who they are, then perhaps we should join another religion, because then we are not the church of Jesus Christ. 

"Anti-mutant violence is markedly demeaning and vicious. It is a hate crime, perhaps the last permitted hate crime in our society, and we as people, as Christians, are letting it happen, some of us *committing* these crimes. If these victims were black or Hispanic, we would be outraged! If these victims were homosexual, we would be aghast! If these victims were Catholic or Jewish or Muslim, we would be incensed! These people are mutants. These mutants are people. And we turn our heads. 

"You ask me why I say these things. You ask me why I stand up here in my pulpit and defend people who are mutants, people whom nobody wants defend and everybody wants to persecute. And I answer by repeating to you a verse from the first letter of Paul to the Romans: 'For I am certain that neither death nor life, neither angels nor principalities, neither things present nor things to come, neither height nor depth nor any other creature, nothing can ever separate us from the love of God that comes to us in Christ Jesus.' Amen." (-2-) 

--- 

Sally Blevins sits in the dank basement, a small desk light illuminating the book in front of her. She reads the words aloud, so that they may sink into her mind even further. 

"Many will ask what Harlem finds to honor in this stormy, controversial and bold young captain -- and we will smile," she reads. "They will say he is of hate -- a fanatic, a racist -- who can only bring evil to the cause for which you struggle. 

"And we will answer and say unto them: Did you even talk to Brother Malcolm? Did you ever touch him, or have him smile at you? Did you ever really listen to him? Did he ever do a mean thing? Was he ever himself associated with violence or any public disturbance? For if you did you would know him. And if you knew him you would know why we must honor him: Malcolm was our manhood, our living, black manhood. This was his meaning to his people. And, in honoring him, we honor the best in ourselves. ... And we will know him then for what he was and is -- a Prince -- our own black shining Prince -- who didn't hesitate to die, because he loved us so." (-3-) 

She closes the book and sits back in the wooden chair. Here the world changes. Here a new life begins. 

***** 

(-1-) As seen in X-Men #42-44. 

(-2-) A homily originally written David C. McBriar, O.F.M., then of St. Francis of Assisi Parish of, Raleigh, NC, and adapted to the Marvel Universe. The original homily can be found in his book, "Forget Something?: Homilies for Travelers." To find out how to obtain a copy of this book, write to: 

St. Francis of Assisi Parish  
11401 Leesville Road  
Raleigh, NC 27613 

(-3-) An excerpt from Ossie Davis' eulogy of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, better known to the world as Malcolm X. 

************************************************************************ 

------------------------------------------------------------------------ 


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